


a song of their own

by astrokath



Series: First Impressions [1]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Bittersweet, Dragons, F/M, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Non-Human POV character, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath
Summary: Hayeloth can’t always tell where she leaves off and Janekka starts, but that’s the way it should be for a dragon and rider of their age.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calenlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenlily/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pieces of the Whole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091015) by [astrokath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath). 
  * Inspired by [Searching](https://archiveofourown.org/works/611899) by [astrokath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath). 



> Thanks to Amy for beta reading!
> 
> Post reveals: this is the third story I've written about the consequences and implications of the impression bond, both good and bad. I thought it made sense to connect them together as part of a thematic series.

The far side of Igen’s weyrbowl shimmers with summer haze. Hayeloth lids her eyes against the glare, relaxing into the familiar sensations of strong sunlight on her hide and the rising air that drifts past her ledge. Somewhere nearby, another green beckons to her suitors. Hayeloth still feels the promise of days such as these - the dizzying ascent, swift pursuit, and eventual rapturous rapport - but the need to prove herself has long since been tempered by age and time.  She is who she is, and in Janekka she has everything she’ll ever need.  Their days are a song that they both know note-perfect, its tempo marked by habit and routine.  Bathing, feeding, oiling and tidying, sleeping, talking. Visits with other dragons and humans. Old aches and older tales, sweep-rides and watches, laughter, and tears, and smiles.

Days can pass them by easily, just like this. They share each other’s thoughts and sensations, dragon and human, braided tight. Hayeloth can’t always tell where she leaves off and Janekka starts, but that’s the way it should be for a dragon and rider of their age. They know each other intimately, and Hayeloth has grown practised at smoothing the fraying ends back into place.

Sensing her rider pause in her search of the weyr, Hayeloth rumbles a query. _You found it?_

“Found what, dearest?” Janekka asks. There is a note of confusion colouring her mind. It ought to feel odd, but it doesn't.

_You were looking for something. I think you were, anyway._

_Really?_ Inside the weyr, Janekka’s brow furrows.

Hayeloth feels a swiftly smothered spark of concern flare briefly in her rider’s mind.

 _I don’t remember,_ Janekka says _. I was cleaning, wasn’t I? Only..._

Hayeloth makes a quick, instinctive decision. _Something for a friend._ She’s not entirely certain about it, but it _feels_ right, at least.  _You were looking for something that reminded you of your friends._

A wave of love washes over her. _Thank you, Hayeloth_ , Janekka says _._

Slowly, Janekka crosses the sparsely furnished weyr, a thread of melody weaving through her mind. There’s a small wicker casket in the storage alcove, half covered by a pile of mending.  Above it, a small image is nailed to the wall: cunningly dyed cloth. It reminds Janekka of something. Hayeloth reaches for the meaning in Janekka’s mind, as she so often has since the day she was clutched, but nothing comes free.

Janekka’s worry comes again, sharper and harder than before. Hayeloth grasps her rider closer. _I’m here! I’m here!_

 _Oh, Hayeloth._ Janekka’s hands are shaking. She grasps the casket tightly, but the sensation doesn’t quite fade.

Janekka is Hayeloth’s heart and history and home, the one soul who knows what it means to be Hayeloth, just as she herself knows what it is to be Janekka. Hayeloth lets the truth of that resonate between them, until Janekka’s pulse steadies and slows.

 _Yes, we do, don’t we?_ Janekka says. 

She lifts the casket, and it’s almost too heavy for her to carry, but Janekka is a determined woman. She always has been. All the same, it’s a long walk out to the ledge. _Should I come back inside?_ Hayeloth asks.

_No, stay where you are. This weyr’s too cold today anyway. A bit of sun will be nice for my old bones. You’ve been enjoying it, I can tell!_

There’s a hollow worn into the wall behind Hayeloth where Janekka has always liked to sit. Hayeloth manoeuvres so that she’s not blocking the light.  But when Janekka comes out, she doesn’t find her usual spot. Instead, she eases herself down to the ground in the crook of Hayeloth’s forelegs, placing the casket in front of them both. 

Hayeloth tilts her chin downwards over her rider’s bony shoulders and gives the casket a sniff.  _What’s inside?_

“Well,” says Janekka. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

At first, everything is bewilderingly new, every moment bringing some fresh thing to be learned. How to chew flesh without chewing her own tongue. How to cross the Weyrbowl without snarling her wingtips beneath her clawed feet. How water feels, and the slide of algae on the stony floor of the lake, and the wet colour that Janekka once insisted she put a forefoot into.  The regularity of day and night, of food and sleep, of Janekka’s presence in her mind. How to make sense of the cacophony of dragon thoughts and voices that fill her waking mind, all the indistinct conversations that she can neither properly hear nor entirely ignore. How to separate the taut ache of her over-full belly from the cramps that Janekka’s feeling today. How to feel and think the way a dragon _should_.  

It’s overwhelming. Without Janekka, she knows she’d be completely, terribly lost…but knowing that she’s Hayeloth, and that Janekka is hers, still doesn’t quite explain what any of that _means_. But she sees the older dragons flying, and Hayeloth knows that one day she, too, will spread her wings and fly.

Nairth, whose Weyr this is, makes them small and quiet if they get too loud.  Zinath, their dam, is kinder, but just as quick to push them away.  Mostly it’s Inianth who takes charge of them all, who tells them what’s important and what’s not, who tamps down the fierceness of emotions grown uncontrollably strong. He’s also there in the hours when Janekka is quietest, when the glows are covered and the heat of the day is at an ebb. Hayeloth’s particularly thankful for that. It’s hard, getting the balance just right. Far harder than walking or keeping proper track of her wings. Sometimes, the other young dragons in the Weyr feel something, and she feels it too. It’s never an easy thing, sensing Whinith’s urgent needs, or Stannath’s, or Jeth’s, and not mistaking them for her own.  And sometimes she’s just not sure where she stops and Janekka starts. That’s the worst thing of all: the moments where she reaches for Janekka and finds only herself, still too small and alone and afraid in the dark.

Days pass, a blur of newness and familiarity, and the raw hunger of their hatching slowly fades.  The dragons nestle together in the barracks. The warmth recalls something familiar; a comfort to them all.

Today, there are four of them, dozing in a wakeful jumble of wings and limbs close to one of the inner rooms.  Hayeloth can sense Janekka inside. Her mind is sharply focused on her hands and tools and the leather beneath her fingers. There’s frustration there, too, because Jeth’s N’lan has already finished his work, and it’s not fair that he gets everything done perfect the first time he tries. 

 _I’m sorry,_ Janekka sends. _I know you want to head out to the lake, but K’sard’s not letting us leave until we’re done. I’m just not as good at this as I thought._

 _You’re perfect to me,_ Hayeloth sends back.  A little louder and harder than she’d meant to, perhaps, because the inner room suddenly fills with kind laughter and delight, the heat of Janekka’s blush, and Inianth compassionately but firmly helping her settle her thoughts back within the bounds of her own head.

And then, a new sound rises from within the workroom. Whinith startles, disturbing Jeth fully awake. Stannath rumbles a complaint, but his head is already raised and cocked towards the noise.

 _Hmm?_ Jeth sends. He, at least, has heard his rider make such sounds before.

N’lan’s voice is high and clear, and resonates pleasingly through the air. He’s not as long out of his shell as Janekka and the others are, Hayeloth thinks, but she can also sense that Janekka’s impressed by his skill. There’s a purpose to these noises too, but frustratingly for Hayeloth it’s not new to Janekka at all and she’s paying more attention to her hands than to what N’lan’s _song_ means.

The question - the confusion - prickles.  _Tell us, Jeth!_ she demands.

Jeth gathers his thoughts, and does his best. And Hayeloth finds then that she _does_ understand it, as do Whinith and Stannath and all the other dragonets in the barracks: that this is what music is, and it’s something that’s meant to be shared.

No-one’s sure which of them came up with the idea, if anyone did at all. And knowing how a tune sounds is a far cry from knowing how to make each individual note.  But the weyrlings understand, when their dragons first try to sing.   Hayeloth feels love and pride and laughter, a spark of sheer delight, and soon the whole barracks is echoing with voices, any tune forgotten. It doesn’t matter though, because the song is all their own.

 

* * *

 

Hayeloth shifts her weight uneasily from one hind leg to the next. Small eddies of dust rise around her feet, drifting barely any distance before they diffuse away into nothing. The summer has been a long one, even by Igen standards, and this end of the Weyrbowl is utterly dry.

She raises her muzzle and studies the air. There are no other dragons aloft, but she knows the Weyr well enough not to need them for reference. The sun is high, and the wind is from the south. She’d need to take special care at that end of the bowl today even if she were flying alone, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the coming flight isn’t equally important. She shifts again, wings half unfurled, feeling the weight of her rider against her spine.  Janekka has flown with other dragons already, Hayeloth knows, and they’ve done ground drills a-plenty.  But flying together will be new for both of them…

Janekka reaches down, testing the play of the flying straps that she’d spent the last three sevendays crafting. Janekka’s trying not to let it show, trying not to feel it at all, but Hayeloth knows the worries are there. Will the stitches hold? Are the straps too loose, or too tight, and will she remember which way to lean when Hayeloth banks? What does Hayeloth see when she studies the rim like that?

Hayeloth breathes in deep, gently encouraging Janekka to do the same. She shares the bright heat of sunlight on her back and wings, the cool promise of rushing air. She feels the sweat slicking Janekka’s shirt beneath her breasts, the pulse of their shared hearts, the love that makes them one.

 _I will keep you safe,_ Hayeloth says _._ And she means it, too.

 _Yes_ , Janekka agrees. _Yes, we’ll be fine._  

Together, they run through the day’s drill from start to finish once again.  Steady ascent to a safe altitude above the rim, one half circuit round to the lake, then a serpentine glide before landing at the marker in the centre of the Bowl.  If Janekka’s confidence had ever been on the verge of faltering, there’s no sign of it now.

 _Do you know who K’sard will send first?_ she asks.

Hayeloth huffs out a lungful of air.  _No, they’ve not decided yet._ Stannath’s and Porath’s riders are arguing precedence with K’sard as persuasively as they can, and if the prickly ongoing conversation between the two young bronzes is anything to go by, neither is any closer to proving their point. Brown Tiolth is despondent, and his rider abashed - Inianth has already set that pair straight on the idea that a rider’s age makes any difference at all - and now some of the more earnest weyrlings are engaged in a display of hopeful impatience and collective annoyance. Koppisath’s rider is making much of himself, as usual, but he knows even less of flight than Inianth’s rider does.

With that thought, Hayeloth comes to a realisation. Janekka is wise, and Janekka always knows what is best for her, but Hayeloth knows how to fly. She can trust Janekka to care for her, and to understand her limits, but she can trust herself to do this right, and do it well.

 _We’re ready_ , she tells her rider. _I’m going to tell Inianth we’re ready._

And like that, the decision is made. Janekka doesn’t query any part of it. Her mind swells with trust and pride as the rapport between them grows. _Yes, my love. We are._

Hayeloth reaches out for Inianth’s mind, expecting to need to make an effort just to be heard. But Inianth’s thoughts aren’t on the other weyrlings at all. His eyes whirl blue-green as he gazes their way.

 _You are indeed,_ he says.  _I shall tell K’sard._

The weyrlingmaster beckons for quiet, and a heavy silence falls across the bowl. The other weyrlings have guessed what is to come, but not one of them looks Hayeloth and Janekka’s way, not until K’sard speaks.

“Hayeloth and Janekka,” he calls out. “In your own time.”

Janekka’s heart is in her mouth, racing and eager.

Hayeloth gathers herself to leap: strong, certain, sure. 

 

* * *

 

They’re sprawled on the slack ground between sand dunes, soothed by the whispering grains.

They’re half-conscious in a quiet, well-used cavern set aside for such times, minds and limbs tangled and adrift. 

It’s strangely familiar, this proximity to another dragon. Hayeloth’s memories of her own weyrlinghood are hazy, but she knows there are times when young dragons cannot be close to their riders, and instead find security and comfort with one another. In a different way, it also reminds her of the tight focus of training manoeuvres with her clutchmates, or the newer formations she and Janekka fly with their Wing, or Nairth’s absolute presence at the heart of the Weyr. And perhaps, those things will feel different now as well.

Hayeloth briefly lifts onto her haunches, flexes her wings, then settles back down on the sand beside her mate.  She may not be entirely sure what to make of it all yet, but neither is she in any particular hurry to figure it out. Moments like these are rare, the simple enjoyment of them enough.

With a wordless rumble Sendrath echoes the thought, his admiration for her clear. That comes as a surprise to Hayeloth - she would never have guessed it of this small, swift brown, but apparently he sees much in her. She’s not sure that D’lonas feels the same way about Janekka but, if the way Janekka is feeling is any guide, that doesn’t matter one jot.

Sendrath dips his head towards hers, and as one mind they twist, twining necks to bring themselves throat-to-throat again. Sensations echo between the four of them; back at the Weyr, Janekka clasps D’lonas’ hand and brings it back up to her breast with a sigh and the slightest of shudders. The subtle vibrations of breath and pulse, of wingbeats stilled, of that glorious slow plummet into oneness. Janekka remembers it as Hayeloth, not as herself, and though it should be terrifying, that absence of Janekka-as-Janekka, somehow Hayeloth stays calm.

She knows what it means now: to fly to the limits of her skill. The dizzying forces, the thrill of pursuit. Her untapped speed and strength, the instinctive urgency of her deepest needs. The ache in her wings, the tight grasp of claws, the moment when fight and flight were done.

She knows what it means now: to be Hayeloth’s rider, to be Janekka’s dragon. The oblivion of shared experience, of utmost trust and interlocking souls. They’ve never been so far from one another before, nor so utterly, utterly close. Hayeloth feels the flutter of Janekka’s heart, the thin coverlet rucked beneath her on the bed, the whispers of laughter and love in her mind. She feels her own strength and self-belief, echoed and emphasised as never before. Today, there are new harmonies to their sharing, enriching the song that defines and makes them one.

 

* * *

 

Gathers are better by far than Threadfalls, Hayeloth decides. Lemos Hold’s herds and river and the Great Lake are all off limits, as are the heights of the Hold proper, but the simple freedom to fly and converse in the balmy spring air are welcome indeed. She’s found herself in the company of a group of Telgar dragons: Yendarth, Heerth and Aliroth, all of R’tarric’s Wing, and all very glad of the absence of R’tarric and Kabreth themselves. They're a good humoured bunch, overall.

Usually, the only time Hayeloth sees Telgar dragons in any number is during the rare Threadfalls that pass across both Weyrs’ domains.  They had one of those just over a sevenday ago, Hayeloth knows, and although she doesn’t remember much - or really anything - in the way of details, it seems that the dragons and riders of neither Weyr have managed to drop the subject since. 

Today, Telgar’s senior browns and bronzes and their riders have mostly been arguing over whether a Transition Wing should obey a Fall’s current Flightleader to the letter, or if they’re simply there to make life easier for their own Weyr’s half of the fight. The Igen bronzes are being unflinchingly polite in reply, but Hayeloth thinks that has more to do with Xarianth than anything else… especially after O’dass took his ill humour out on old Sedrenth’s rider at breakfast.   The smaller dragons offer up their own opinions freely, swapping sides willy-nilly… though the whole back-and-forth seems to have more sides to it than a fresh-hatched egg, and shows no signs of petering out any time soon.  Besides, there are far more interesting things to discuss, like what Cassilth’s Wing are up to, or if O’dass can make even more of a tunnelsnake of himself, or who the mysterious masked drudge might be, or whether Telgar’s Kabreth and R’tarric will ever get back into Xarianth’s good graces?

Hayeloth knows what she herself thinks - some very human form of mutiny, almost certainly, probably Jeth’s N’lan will know, and what kind of queen would give a dragon like Kabreth any encouragement at all? - but it’s far more fun to listen than to speak.  There’s also the prospect that something interesting might happen at the Gather. Janekka’s down at the market right now, tasting citrus preserve alongside one of the Telgar riders, but she’s not thinking about flavours much at all.

Yendarth settles down on the rocky outcrop beside her, leaving the five other members of his Wing to scatter themselves across the sunny slope. The blue is surprisingly good company, and an excellent source of gossip besides. Hayeloth hadn’t been the first to hear the news that Xarianth’s flight would be opened to the bronzes of other Weyrs, but thanks to Yendarth she _had_ been first to share R’tarric’s reaction… and a means by which the Igen bronzes could be taken down a peg or two themselves.

 _Well?_ Yendarth asks. _What happened? We saw them leave. Did they do it? Are they coming back?_

Hayeloth slowly teases out her reply. _Yes, they went back to the Weyr. Yes, they’re coming back soon._

_And?_

_Their riders are all properly dressed now. A bit hot, but they look like proper riders._

_And the oil? Did they use the oil we sent back with Poranith?_

She reaches for Sedrenth, the elderly green who has been watching the comings and from the comfort of her ground-level weyr all morning. The mental image she receives in reply is coloured by T’renan’s amusement and a sharp scent of… something.  Hayeloth shares it with Yendarth in full: M’thor, L’sef and O’dass, marching stiffly towards their dragons in formal leathers that are at least a month of good eating too small in L’sef’s case. The bronzeriders’ hair is uniformly slicked back, in a manner than flatters none of them.

 _L’withel warned G’deiren and W’sil not to,_ Hayeloth adds, _but Stannath promises none of them will spoil the joke._

_And none of the other riders have said anything?_

_Oh, plenty! O’dass told Jeth’s N’lan that how a bronzerider chooses to dress his hair is none of his business._

_What did he say?_

_Nothing to him. But then N’lan spoke to Janekka, and Janekka asked_ me _what kind of dragons have I been talking to today. So I told her ones with far more common sense and much better jokes than bronzes._

 _Very true!_ Yendarth’s eyes whirl pale golden green as he shows her how humourless Kabreth and his rider have been recently. _But at least they won’t be here tomorrow._

 _Might not be here tonight,_ Hayeloth adds. Xarianth’s colour is starkly brighter than that of the other two golds on the heights.

Yendarth yawns, broadly.  _They always make the bronzes wait. And Xarianth’s rider won’t miss the dancing._

From up the slope, one of the Telgar browns wades into the conversation. _My rider heard a good one earlier._   _What’s the difference between a bronzerider and his dragon?_

Hayeloth doesn’t remember if she knows this one or not. _Janekka? Do you know this one?_

 _Huh?_ Janekka smothers a grin, and shares a smile with Yendarth’s rider. _Oh, sure. One’s a shiny tit, the other’s a tiny shit. Only it’s meant to be about one of the Benden Wingleaders, so don’t repeat that where any of their dragons can hear you, please!_

_I won’t!_

_How many bronzeriders does it take to change a basket of glows?_ Yendarth tries.

 _One - but he’ll probably change the glows for pebbles,_ answers Ioth, the brown _._

 _All of them,_ Hayeloth says _. Half to argue that they shouldn’t do it, half to say that they should, and one to win the fight and call a greenrider to do it for him._

 _None,_ says Kirrith, the other green nearby. _They just pull down their trousers and let the sun shine out of their arse._

Janekka smothers a snicker.

That, apparently, was the response Yendarth was thinking of. _What do you call a bronzerider in the dark?_

 _Fully dressed!_ Ioth responds almost immediately.

Yendarth sends a mental reprimand that sounds suspiciously like his earlier memory of Kabreth. _That’s Fully Dressed Sir to you!_

 _I thought you said they had_ better _jokes than the bronzes?_ Janekka whispers in.

Hayeloth shares her rider’s thought with Yendarth. The blue’s reply is knowing and dry. _Oh believe me, we_ do _._

Later, when the sun and moons have set and the stars alone light the sky, Hayeloth is content to simply listen to the distant beat of the Harpers’ drums.  There are only a few Turns left to the Pass, and the Red Star is little more than a faint gleam in the depths of late summer nights. 

 _Pern should be like this more often,_ Hayeloth muses, as much to herself as to anyone else. Yendarth is asleep, Ioth and Kirrith deep in a conversation of their own.  But Janekka hears her, even in the midst of her favourite dance.

 _It is a beautiful night._ She follows the music to the end of the reel, then makes her excuses to her current partner. _A shame we didn’t get out to see the boat races, but shells, I wouldn’t have missed that tantrum O’dass threw for anything! L’par says their hair’ll stop stinking by morning, but it’ll probably stay that shade until it grows out. And that snake-faced R’tarric’s not going to get any warmer a welcome in Lemos than his own Weyr if what I heard earlier is true._

_What was that?_

_Let’s just say that he insulted the wrong hold lady and leave it there,_ Janekka says. _You know, I never thought I’d feel sorry for_ his _type._

_And L’par? How does his type suit you?_

Janekka smiles. _Oh, well enough,_ she says.

 

* * *

  

There’s a heaviness to Janekka’s thoughts today, a tightening of corners that speaks of painful things kept masked from view. 

Hayeloth knows what this means.  Janekka’s trying to conceal how much it hurts her almost as much as she’s hiding the memories of how it happened, but you can’t hide that someone’s no longer there.

Thread has taken one of their friends.

Next time the Weyr rises to fight, it won’t be Jeth she’ll fight beside. Because Jeth is gone, and he won’t be coming back.

So, Hayeloth finds angles and shadows of her own. Places where Janekka’s raw grief can be forgotten. Tender regard, concentration on their chores, curiosity and happenstance.

And yet, it still feels like she’s doing both Jeth and his rider a disservice. The dragon she grew up with, who will grow no older himself. She doesn’t know if he was hurt, or scared. If his rider was even with him at the end. She doesn’t know if she’ll remember him at all in the future.  And the only person she can ask is Janekka, whose grief she can no longer fully share. She’s mourned Jeth already. The whole Weyr will have mourned him, extolling his life and his loss, but it’s not an answer to _this_ ache, the one that she alone feels and can never ignore.  Janekka hurts, so why doesn’t she? Janekka hurts, and she can’t even soothe her.  Not enough to make it stop.

 

Sunset brings no answers, so Hayeloth suggests a visit to the lake. The moons are rising, just past full, and for a while at least Thread might be forgotten. By the time they arrive, L’withel and Ch’fess, Stannath and Whinith, are already waiting. Hayeloth doesn’t know if Janekka will sleep at all tonight, but she’ll have a better chance of it this way, comforted by the presence of her friends.

Hayeloth joins her clutchmates in the water, rinsing away the fatigue of the day.  She shares the sensation with Janekka, easing away her grief as best she can.  There’ve been other evenings both like this and unlike this, she recalls. Precious and bright with sound. L’withel with his gitar, Janekka her pipes, Ch’fess tapping the beat and N’lan’s voice carrying the song.  Their song, the one the Weyrsinger wrote for them all, when they were barely a month out of their shells.

With no thought in her head at all, Janekka starts to hum. L’withel takes his usual part, and if Ch’fess has his head buried in his arms, his feet quietly mark the tempo.

N’lan’s voice is missing, He’s a memory now, a series of notes that once filled their hearts, lost to the intangible silence of _between_.  L’withel’s voice falters, and Hayeloth knows full well that Janekka cannot manage very much more.   She can hear N’lan’s absence in Janekka’s mind, the shape of it, the sound of it.

This time, Whinnith is first: a low warble that almost hits the right beats, and perhaps comes as close as any dragon can to an actual tune. Stannath and Hayeloth sing out their own attempts at harmony as one, their croons a ponderous cacophony of love.  Janekka gasps back a choke. Ch’fess has lifted his head and started laughing brokenly at the sky.  L’withel weeps, silently.

_We’re very out of tune, aren’t we?_

_Oh, Hayeloth!_ Janekka is crying too, but inside her chest, the pain has sweetened into something bearable and precious. _Of course you are, but that doesn’t matter one bit. Your singing is perfect.  You’re all perfect, exactly as you are._

 

* * *

 

Janekka is… _in clutch_. Hayeloth’s been aware of that for a while, has felt the changes in her rider’s growing body, the inwards-slant to her thoughts.  They’re different to dragons, in this. The weyrfolk offer no wonder or respect for her rider, not like the two queens demand. And the other dragons aren’t interested at all.

But Hayeloth is.  She’s never been a particular favourite of the young humans around the Weyr, but neither does she turn them aside. She’s seen the human females grow and swell, knows that the new life inside Janekka will spend the best part of a Turn right where she is, and then be cared for by one of the foster mothers who takes care of the youngest ones through their unshelled vulnerability, until they’re ready to find their voices and hatch onto their feet. But it all seems _very_ impractical.

Hayeloth has to admit that she’s still rather uncertain of the details, and Janekka’s assurances that Calla-of-the-lower-caverns will take care of the babe just aren’t satisfying her.  She can sense Janekka’s hesitation, and fear.  There are risks that Janekka doesn’t want Hayeloth to be aware of. Janekka doesn’t want to distress her, which is the right way for a rider to feel, but if Hayeloth knows Janekka is a little bit afraid anyway, how is it supposed to help?  She even tried asking Zinath about it, but all Zinath said was that dragons just know what to do, and she really shouldn’t worry herself about it.

When the first of the birth pangs come, Janekka is somewhere in the lower caverns, and Hayeloth is dozing on her ledge.  Hayeloth knows what it means though - she _has_ been paying attention.

She also knows that _they are not ready for this._ Janekka isn’t ready. She isn’t ready. Neither of them have done this before, and she still doesn’t know what she’s meant to do.  Except, she mustn’t make Janekka worry, and she has to do _something_.

Hayeloth drops hastily from her ledge into an eastwards glide. The cavern she’s aiming for is large, and quiet. Inside, the sandy floor is cool. Too cool, but she dismisses that as a problem for later. She tries using her forefeet first, but that proves too ineffective and slow. Then, she dips her nose into the sand, nudging it back towards the bowl in a slithering, shifting heap.

 _Hayeloth?_ What _are you doing?_

Zinath’s voice is rich and warm, and not unkind, but Hayeloth makes herself small at the touch. _I only need a little. I can bring it back afterwards!_

 _Ah._ Zinath pushes. Hayeloth feels a brief instant of pique, then amusement, then compassion as the queen lifts her concerns lightly from her mind.

 _Janekka’s not ready yet!_ Hayeloth explains. _And we don’t have any sand! Or anything! And she’s scared and worried and she doesn’t know how to feel about being a mother and not being a mother and maybe it’s my fault but Janekka thinks it’s hers and she’s hurting and that means the baby’s coming but nothing’s ready and-_

Suddenly, her thoughts still.  Zinath is calming her, she realises. She’s speaking to Janekka, too.  Janekka is coming, and there’s no need to panic, and Hayeloth should relax and wait.

_But the-_

_Shhh!_

_Hayeloth?_

This time, the voice is Janekka’s.  She’s on her way, Hayeloth senses, and she wants her to wait. The pains have eased, too, so Hayeloth complies.

 

When Janekka arrives, she’s accompanied by two other women. After Hayeloth has assured herself that her rider really is okay, and that the baby really _won’t_ be here for another month at least, the women introduce themselves as Calla and Rhee. They have children with them too. The largest is half the height of Janekka, and quiet, while the smallest is very loud and wobbly on its feet.  Rhee has a strange bundle strapped to her chest, but it’s not until she gets close enough for Hayeloth to smell it that she realises that it’s actually a _baby._

Janekka tries explaining what the other women have been teaching her, but Hayeloth isn’t really taking it in. Instead, she listens to the shape of the children’s minds, and the way _trust_ and _love_ and _security_ and maybe a little bit of _that’s MY rock!_ ripple out in all directions. She can feel Rhee’s tender awareness of the small, sleeping body pressed close to hers.  She can feel the fierce determination of the smallest child as he waddles over, grasps hold of her leg, then bounces up and down on the balls of his feet.

“He’s not hurting her, is he?” Calla asks.

Janekka smiles. “No, she’s utterly fascinated. I don’t think she’s heard a thing I’ve said in the last five minutes.”

Hayeloth gazes back at the hatching sands, then down at the child still clinging to her leg. _They’re not like eggs at all, are they?_   _Are you?_

The child’s arms splay out sideways as he lets go, and he promptly falls back on his behind.  “GEE!” he cries, looking up at her with wide brown eyes. 

Laughing, Calla hurries in.  “Gee?” he says again, reaching out to her with both chubby fists.

 _And yours will be like this one?_ Hayeloth asks.

“Well, maybe not quite the same,” Janekka says.   “But similar, I suppose.”

 _Good,_ Hayeloth decides.

 

* * *

 

The thermals over the Igen sands are unpredictable in spring, where the warming air meets the strengthened prevailing winds from the west.  Hayeloth enjoys the challenge of these threadfalls, and although there’s little at risk on the ground beneath, today, not one single Thread will be permitted to fall unflamed.

It helps that Thread falls lightly now, and sometimes barely falls at all.  Sometimes they fly the whole corridor with light Wings and no need to resupply at all.  Sometimes the whole thing is over and done with in less time than it takes to eat a good-sized wherry.  There’s a febrile sense of excitement in the Wings every time they rise now - will _this_ be the last Fall of the Pass? And how will they know for sure?

Today, Hayeloth’s Wing are on the south flank of the Fall, three strung-out chains of dragons keeping close guard on the corridor’s edge. Most of the clumps are falling further north, but the shifting air currents have wreaked havoc with the lighter singletons, and every now and then she finds herself in pursuit of a stray thread blown far off course.   None recently, though. Janekka’s eyes are on the breaking pattern of flame from the Wings overhead, obscured by thin clouds, drifting smoke and strands of char, while Hayeloth herself scans the skies ahead and listens in on her newest wingmate, chasing down the remains of a half-flamed clump.

 _Caught it!_ Jooth exclaims, mind choked with pride, as his rider crows with glee. _It was crisping up well on its own, but best to be sure, yes?_

 _Yes, you did very well!_ Hayeloth sends.  She senses Grioth, the Weyrleader’s bronze, echoing the sentiment.

 _That bodes well,_ Janekka adds. _Not like Grioth to do that. Maybe this really_ is _the last Fall of the Pass?_

Hayeloth steadies her place in the formation while she waits for Jooth to return to his position ahead of her.  The young blue will be happier now that he’s caught his first Thread, and hopefully won’t grow quite as restless next time.

Beneath the Wings, soft sand slowly gives way to bright green fields of rivergrains.  There’s no traffic on the river itself, but a streamer of smoke rises from a slate-tiled shelter beside a jetty.  The threads are few and far between now.  The pressure in her second stomach is easing, and there’s a familiar ache in her spars.  She’s not even come close to being scored today, and although a few dragons haven’t been so lucky, Zinath has assured the Wings that all will be flying again soon.

Hayeloth banks, eyeing a suspicious patch of char, but that’s all it is. The watchfulness isn’t hers alone, she realises - none of Igen’s dragons are flaming any more.  Her wings beat faster, faster, and she scours the sky for any sign of their perennial enemy.

 _Mine!_ bronze Magrth declares, lurching free of his wingmates as if in pursuit of a queen.  

Dragon bellows split the air: encouragement and reproach.  The thread is drifting ever further south as it falls, and Hayeloth is gladdened by the thought that she’ll have a fine view of its destruction.

Magrth accelerates again, his broad wings bearing him onwards at a pace that a green or blue could never hope to sustain. Ahead, Hayeloth sees Chinth drift out of formation, then Daweth, and Spilliroth. _Gusts, Jooth!_ she sends. _Be watchful!_

 _I will!_ he says.

Magrth bares his teeth, and flames. Bright golden-red heat spills from his jaws, spills and splays, as the wind catches thread and dragon both. Bronze wings stagger and struggle, but there’s no place for him to turn. He blinks _between,_ and the thread falls free.

But not for very long.

Jooth, young and eager Jooth, still has a ready lungful of flame and is perfectly placed to use it.  He doesn’t hold back. By the time Magrth blinks back into view, three lengths distant, eyes blazing red with frustrated fighting rage, the last of the threads is gone.

Suddenly, everything changes.

Jooth bellows his triumph, and Hayeloth _knows._ Somehow, they all do. This _was_ the last Fall of the Pass, and _that_ , its final Thread.  Never again in her lifetime will they be called upon to flame it from the skies. Never again will it steal the lives of her friends.

The voice of Igen Weyr is one, and it shatters the very sky.

 

* * *

 

Hayeloth flies straight and smooth and silent, while Janekka weeps.   

She wants to turn the heat of her flame on something, but her second stomach is empty.  She wants to tear down mountains with her claws, but the stone won’t be moved.  She wants to fly until the sky becomes cold and sharp and dizzying.  None of it will help.

She wants to say _I told you so,_ but that’ll only hurt Janekka more.

Hayeloth keeps flying.

Eventually, because she’s thirsty and tired, because Janekka’s grip on her neck-ridge has shifted from white-knuckled distress to a slack exhaustion of her own, and because the blue-grey bushes lining the water’s edge at the base of the canyon spark a memory of usefulness, Hayeloth descends.

She lands lightly on the gravel, barely knocking a pebble out of place, then stretches her neck down to drink.

Janekka hurts, and that’s the only truth Hayeloth needs to hear.

After a while, Janekka makes her own ungainly descent to the ground.  Her arms hang limp by her sides, and she stares blankly at the tumbling water. “Numbweed won’t help, Hayeloth, but I appreciate the thought.”

 _You should drink something too,_ Hayeloth suggests.

“Maybe,” her rider mutters, before turning away.

Janekka doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to remember. But the thoughts and memories are there, all the same.

Hayeloth sees the boy as he was, and she feels the pang of hurt when he turned to his foster mother for comfort. She sees the judgement in the eyes of Janekka’s own mother and father, when they tell their daughter that she hasn’t done enough. She sees the desperation in Janekka’s eyes as she pleads with Hayeloth to bespeak the boy, and though she cannot remember if his thoughts were as distasteful then as they are today, she remembers the smothering of doubts Janekka felt when he told her the first of so many, many lies.

Janekka remembers her commiserations after half a dozen separate Hatchings, and all the times she asked Hayeloth to do more. She remembers the time she didn’t spend with her firstborn, the gifts and favours she bestowed in recompense, the fractures that had been present from the start.

But mostly, Janekka remembers the things he said to her today. His words have wounded her deeply, and the scars will remain for a very long time. Hayeloth is in no doubt of that.

Eyes whirling softly mauve, Hayeloth presses her muzzle against Janekka’s back. _Janekka,_ she says, and waits.

Janekka draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “You warned me so many times. And I didn’t listen, did I?”

 _I don’t remember_ , Hayeloth says, and it’s not _entirely_ a lie. They’re Janekka’s memories, not her own.  She shows Janekka the water instead, thin rivulets and deep currents, winding over and around the stones and rapidly through the depths, but all still flowing the same way. She shows her the sun sparkling on the surface, bubbles foaming, the glittering scales of a fish as it darts upstream. _Sometimes the rivers flood. Sometimes they don’t flow at all. You can build a dam of pebbles, but it won’t hold the water back._ She’s not really sure why she’s telling Janekka this, what it is that she can’t quite articulate, but something in Janekka eases all the same.

They stand beside each other, brow to brow, watching the river winding away.

 

* * *

 

The weyrlings are gathered in a tidy runner-shoe at the east end of the Weyrbowl, eager and attentive. Hayeloth glances over them approvingly. She may not have any formal responsibilities towards them, but Zahrth’s Ch’nekko is Janekka’s youngest child, the first to become a dragonrider, and that’s important. 

The new Weyrlingmaster often calls on her and Janekka to help out with weyrling drills - ‘might as well, seeing as you’d be nosing in on ‘em anyway’, he’d told Janekka earlier.   Today, they’re preparing for their first mock Threadfall.  Hayeloth has already shown them all her scars from the Pass - the thickened patch of wingsail from the one time she was seriously scored, the rheumatic fingerjoint strained by one too many tight turns, the shiny grey-green patch of hide half-way down her tail where another dragon had come out of _between_ misplaced and flaming, and the dozen or so thin lines of various minor scores. The Weyrlings need to know which injuries are most important to avoid. All of them, Hayeloth thinks, but Igrith has asked her to keep that to herself next time.

The young dragons can be rather silly at times, but Hayeloth finds their ebullience uplifting, their minds free of the unkind memories of the Pass that haunt so many of the older dragonpairs.  She’s glad she doesn’t remember it well herself, but even now there are some nights when she wakes to find Janekka fretful and crying.  Being with the weyrlings helps, Hayeloth thinks. Ch’nekko is a good boy, a good rider to Zahrth. They’ll do well today, she hopes.

She nudges Rampelth into a properly square stance, hushes Yarbeth, and reassures Asdioth that the coming drill will be perfectly safe for his rider.

 _But I’m bigger than you,_ the young bronze whines. _I won’t be able to dodge so well!_

 _And that is why you’ll have Rampelth and Huorth flanking you,_ she reminds him quickly, before Igrith can get concerned.  She chooses not to mention his habitual clumsiness. _Look, here comes Janekka and T’rew. We’ll be starting soon._

The barrel rumbles louder and louder over the stony ground as Janekka and the assistant weyrlingmaster roll it ever nearer. Behind them, one of the weyrfolk is hauling a sack.  With some effort, Janekka and T’rew set the barrel upright on the ground. Igrith’s V’benack tosses T’rew a crowbar, and he unfastens the clamps and eases the lid off.

“Let’s have those threads then!” Janekka says, beckoning over the young lad with the sack. Together, they raise the open end of the sack over the top of the barrel, and the bits and pieces of string and cloth and wool come tumbling out. Janekka rolls up her sleeves, then plunges her arms elbow-deep into the barrel. When she draws them out again, they’re stained bright purple.

Igrith calls each of the dragons up in turn to inspect the barrel, just so they know what they’ll be up against, and that there’s no reason to be afraid of it. Paldruth and Scelth give it a quick once-over, Higgith a longer, more distant look, but the first question doesn’t come until it’s Rampelth’s turn.

 _What is it?_ the bronze asks. _What makes it that colour?_ Rampelth sniffs at Janekka’s bright purple hands, and then at the barrel itself. _That’s not Thread. It doesn’t look like Thread, or smell like Thread. It smells like…_ He pauses, groping for the right word in his rider’s mind. _Bubbly pies?_

Then, his tongue darts out, and before anyone can stop him, Rampelth has a taste.

“No, Rampelth!” the bronze’s rider cries.

Rampelth jerks back, but strands of the stuff have caught between his teeth. He raises a foreleg to claw the mess free, but all that achieves is to move some of the problem from one place to another.

“Rampelth! Hold still, lad!” V’benack bellows.

 _It won’t hurt you,_ Hayeloth reminds him.

 _Maybe I should flame it?_ the other bronze in the clutch, Asdioth, suggests.

 _Flame it? But it’s…it’s not really Thread? Isn’t it? Get it off me! Flame it!_ Rampelth rises onto his haunches, flinging his head from side to side, sending pieces of syrup-soaked wool over everyone within a dragonlength.

 _Calm, Rampelth!_ Hayeloth sends.  _T'rew and Janekka will help._

Igrith, the new weyrlingmaster’s brown, is also calling for order, but he overdoes the strength of his demand. Rampelth drops with a thump to the ground, one foot crashing right into the barrel. He staggers sideways, and loses his footing. The barrel up-ends, spilling a mess of purple wool and sticky syrup. It coats Janekka up to her knees.  T’rew tries to leap clear, but no sooner does he land than he’s slipping face-first onto the ground.

Everyone is laughing. Even T’rew and V’benack, and Janekka’s mirth is so infectious that Hayeloth can barely contain it herself. She bugles in mock disapproval instead.

“You know what?” V’benack says, “I don’t think there’s any urgency in getting this done today. Let’s clear up the mess, then head out to the coast.”

By the time they arrive, half the clutch is stained purple in one spot or another, and Hayeloth is no exception. She basks in the shallows, while Janekka scrubs her clean. They stay there all day, watching firelizards and leaping fish, sporting in the waves and gathering shells, until the sun has set and the silent stars are out.

 

* * *

 

Slowly and carefully, Janekka places each of the items back into the old wicker chest.    A piece of faded green silk, marked with the prints of a human hand and a young dragon’s foot. An offcut of leather flying straps, inexpertly tooled.  A necklace of glass beads, and a woven bracelet that mixes the colours of Igen and Telgar Weyrs.  One of L’withel’s buttons, and a broken set of pipes. A delicate cloth of the sort you might wrap a human babe in, and enfolded inside it a lock of hair and a leather pouch filled with soft, golden sand. A sketch of a young green and her rider, that had come to Janekka when her parents passed _between_. An angular piece of firestone, with a date inscribed on one flattened surface.  Lastly, a small skein of purple wool.

There are other oddments still on the ground. It hurts Janekka to look at them, so neither of them do.

They meant something important, once.

 _Will you sing for me again, Hayeloth?_  Janekka asks. She offers an image: Stannath and Whinith and Jeth, their riders beside them. When they were all young, watching the dawn from the Weyr’s rim.

_I don’t think I remember the tune._

_I do._

A new image slowly takes form in Janekka’s mind. A collage of memories and emotions, intangible as fog.

Hayeloth can read Janekka’s intent. It’s not something she’s ever considered before. It should feel wrong, but for some reason Hayeloth doesn’t understand, she, too, desperately wants to try it, even though she knows that it’s deeply unwise.   _I don’t think I can take us there_ , Hayeloth says.  _I don’t think I should take you anywhere at all._

 _Hayeloth._ Janekka reaches up and strokes Hayeloth on the cheek. _I can get us there. If we’re together._

She’s tired. Hayeloth knows this. She’s tired, and they’re starting to fray. The aches and the slow decline of age are things they can deal with, but the memory that plays a dragon’s tricks on Janekka? The fear that she’ll lose her memories of Hayeloth too?

_That’s why we need to go now, my dearest love._

Hayeloth understands. She’s always understood Janekka, just as Janekka has always understood her. Ever and always. _Yes, Janekka_.

Janekka rises to her feet. She wraps her arms around Hayeloth’s neck. Hayeloth angles a foreleg, and helps Janekka ease herself astride.

The Weyr is quiet, and waiting.  But it won’t be waiting for them.

Hayeloth gathers her muscles, spreads her wings, and launches into the air. The sun is bright and fierce, and the rising air lifts her effortlessly upwards and out.  She calls out as they go, a belling tone of life and love and joy.

For the space of three slow, final heartbeats, Hayeloth’s song echoes in their absence, until the other voices of the Weyr take flight with a song of their own.


End file.
